


Ask and Ye Shall...

by airspaniel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Tell me, Sherlock," John says, softer then, but no less assertive. "Tell me what you want."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask and Ye Shall...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=4891815#t4891815) over at [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/). OP requested Sherlock as a repressed sadist, with John being very accepting of it. Comments/crit always welcome!

"Stop pushing," Sherlock growls, and John doesn't even feign ignorance.

"What for?" he asks, determinedly staying in Sherlock's space. "You had it worked out that I'm attracted to you ages ago. Probably before I realized it myself." He reaches out, slips his fingers around Sherlock's nearly delicate wrist. "And I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I'm not blind."

Sherlock twists his hand violently, breaking the hold. John finds himself slammed against the wall, wrist pinned up by his head, each of Sherlock's long fingers a tight, unyielding band around his forearm. His breath is knocked out of him, and he has to gasp for it, held up under Sherlock's intense scrutiny.

"You have no idea what I want," Sherlock says, voice low and furious. "You wouldn't want me if you did, believe me."

John is still breathless, but he doesn't look away; meets stormy eyes with his own, as steady as he can manage. "Why not let me decide that for myself?"

"Because I know what your decision will be, and I cannot bear to see you leave," replies Sherlock, simply. "And you would leave, John. Everyone else has."

The thought flickers across John's brain - _how many others?_ \- and Sherlock hears it just as easily as if he'd spoken aloud.

From this close, John doesn't need deductive reasoning to divine the answer in his eyes. _Enough._

"Just tell me."

"John…"

"I'm serious. I want to know."

"You _don't_. It isn't right, John. It's not normal."

"Since when do you care about normal?" John demands, and he's never been so determined to get an answer in his life. Never felt the stakes so urgent. So high. "Tell me, Sherlock," he says, softer then, but no less assertive. "Tell me what you want."

Sherlock takes a shuddering breath and tightens his grip, bringing his other hand up to rest on John's neck. His eyes flick down to follow the movement of his fingers as they stroke over John's pulse.

"I want to bruise you," he says, impossibly quiet, thumb and forefinger stretched over John's throat. "Here. I want to choke you until I can see my fingerprints in your skin, purple and black and angry red."

John swallows hard. Sherlock continues undeterred, pressing him harder into the wall, fingertips dragging slowly from his neck down over his collarbones. "I want to bite you until you bleed. Your lips. Your neck. The inside of your wrist. I want to take a knife to your flesh and watch the blood well up. Carve my name on your chest."

"I want to flay the skin off your back with my riding crop; to leave my own scars on your body. Every inch of it. Want to feel you sweat and shiver and _writhe_ because it hurts so much."

" _Jesus_ …" John murmurs, but Sherlock doesn't stop. It's like he can't, now that he's let himself begin. His eyes are wild and his voice is broken and sharp like shattered glass.

"I want to hurt you, John. I want to make you scream, and I want to see the tears in your eyes when you _beg_ me to stop. You would beg, and every time you did I would only hit you harder, only cut you deeper. I would not stop, John. I would not be merciful. I want you, and I want to take you apart."

John closes his eyes, overwhelmed. He can feel his heart pounding and his breath coming shorter than ever, and Sherlock's hand on his arm feels like a brand, even through two layers of clothing.

"So now you know," says Sherlock, a subtle hitch in his breathing. "And now you are going to run for your life."

"I should," John says, mostly to himself, but he doesn't move; just lifts his chin and opens his eyes to meet Sherlock's own.

Sherlock, for his part, looks resigned. "Yes," he agrees, barely a whisper.

"Tell me then," John captures Sherlock's hand where it still rests against his chest, slides it further down his body; past his belt, to press where he's desperately, _achingly_ hard. "Does it feel like I want to leave?"

" _John_." Sherlock's eyes are so dark, the glint of something amazed in them. His tongue flicks over his lips, leaving them slick and slightly parted. John is instantly addicted to the look.

He licks his own lips out of equal parts nervousness and arousal. "When I said it's all fine," he says, _breathes_ , just barely. "I meant it's all fine."

Then his head hits the wall, and Sherlock's mouth is hot and demanding on his own, and John feels like he may never breathe again.


End file.
